


An Honest Living (Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell)

by mayseriouslyunusual



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayseriouslyunusual/pseuds/mayseriouslyunusual
Summary: A backstory for Childermass, telling the story of his life from his birth to the day he enters the service of Gilbert Norrell.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the JSaMN Big Bang on tumblr, and I am pretty darn proud of it! You can check out the absolutely FANTASTIC art bookhobbit did to go with it here: http://bookhobbit.tumblr.com/post/153862997399/for-the-jsamn-big-bang-illustrations-to-accompany (warning, it's possibly a bit spoilery so maybe take a look after you’ve read the fic)
> 
> There are quite a few elements of this that are contradictory to my previous Childermass backstory fic, Thrice Met, but hey, what good's fandom if you can't change your headcanons?

A steady drip, drip, drip: the sound was curiously loud. It came from the corner of the cellar, where water run-off seeped down the wall into a bucket that some conscientious person had placed there.

It was mid-afternoon, but the cellar was dark. The only light it received was watery and grey, second-hand light passed down to them when the inhabitants of the street above had finished with it. Nevertheless, an effort had been made. A small fire at one end of the room burned valiantly, and cheap tallow candles had been set on the rough table that sat in the centre.

Joan rested her hands against the table, moving gently in slow figure-of-eights. Nancy hovered behind her, twisting her hands in her skirt, anxiously.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t sit down?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“No, lass, I want to keep moving for-” Joan stopped suddenly. She clenched her hands on the edge of the table, her knuckles going white. She inhaled slowly, and exhaled in a long, ragged breath. A few long minutes went by, Joan breathing steadily and Nancy looking on, tense with apprehension.

The contraction passed, and Joan relaxed, her body visibly sagging.

“I’ve seen a few births in my time, and the ones where the mother kept moving were the ones that went best.” She straightened up, and winced as a crackle travelled down her spine.

“But what can I do to help you?” Nancy asked.

“Right at this moment? Not much, I’ll tell you when you can make yourself useful,” Joan replied. She saw that the girl was trembling, almost imperceptibly, and added: “You don’t have to stay, you know. I can do this on my own.”

“I said I’d help, and I will,” Nancy replied, with a steely conviction.

Joan knew when to give in, so she nodded. “Thanks, lass.”

She made her way over to the wall and, leaning on it for support, began to waddle up and down. Nancy opened her mouth to protest, but Joan silenced her with a look.

As she walked, Joan looked at the floor disconsolately. She’d seen to it that the room had been scrubbed clean for the birth, but how could you get rid of dirt when the floor _was_ dirt?

More contractions came, gradually increasing in length and with shorter pauses in between them. Eventually they became too much to handle with breathing alone, and Joan allowed herself a few whimpers of pain.

“Is it going to be much longer?” Nancy asked, her brows creased with worry.

“I’m afraid there’s a while yet,” Joan replied, panting with effort.

Another hour or so passed, filled with contractions and pain, and eventually Joan decided that the birth had moved to the next stage.

“All right, put the sheet down,” she said, “I think the baby’s on its way proper now!”

Nancy hastily spread out a clean sheet, stolen from a washing line somewhere by one of Joan’s loyal gang of pickpockets. Joan got down onto the sheet and knelt on all fours. “Quickly, pass me that strap!” She held out a hand, and Nancy hastily handed her an old belt. Joan bit down on the leather just as another contraction came. It was a particularly strong one, and she let out a bellow of pain, which the strap did only a little to muffle.

There was a tentative knock on the cellar door, and Joan spat the leather onto the sheet.

“You tell them to piss off, all right?” she panted. She was sweating with effort now.

Nancy nodded and opened the door. The rest of Joan’s little pickpocket gang were standing there, eyes wide with anxiety.

“Is she all right? We heard her shouting,” asked George. At twelve, he was the next oldest after Nancy, and thus the spokesman for the children left outside.

“She’s getting along fine,” Nancy said, “you’ll just have to wait.” She closed the door in their faces, and hurried back to Joan, who was in the grip of another contraction.

“Will you take a look down there, lass?” Joan panted, “I think the head’s coming.”

Hesitantly, Nancy looked, and white-faced, she nodded to Joan.

“All right, it won’t be much longer now. You be ready to catch the little ’un!”

There was barely a pause for respite before another contraction came, and Joan groaned and pushed.

 “He’s come! He’s come!” Nancy yelled.  

“Little boy is it?” Joan panted, “You don’t make any fuss about the reveal do you, lass?”

She turned to sit down properly, careful not to pull on the cord, and saw Nancy’s face.

“What is it?” she asked, her chest suddenly tight.

“He’s awful pale Joan,” said Nancy, quietly, “and I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“A-all right,” said Joan, fighting to control her rising panic, “wrap him up quickly, and pass him to me.”

Nancy grabbed another sheet and wrapped the boy, passing him to his mother. Joan carefully made sure his head was straight, then rubbed his back, desperately. There was a horrible moment when it seemed nothing was going to happen. But, eventually, the baby coughed, and spluttered, and then screamed.

Joan sagged with relief. “You see?” she said, shouting to be heard over the din, “Them’s healthy lungs!” She wiped some of the blood from the baby with the sheet; Nancy hadn’t had time to clean him off.

“Should I cut the cord?” asked the girl.

“Has it stopped pulsing?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Aye, go ahead then,” said Joan, distractedly, looking at her son, “remember to tie it good and tight,” she added, hurriedly.

“Yes, I know!” said Nancy, holding up two strips of cloth as evidence of her intentions. There was a pause, and then a snip as she cut the cord.

Joan suddenly felt very tired. There was a heaviness to her muscles that she hadn’t noticed during the birth. But it wasn’t over yet. She looked down at her crying baby, unbuttoned her dress and placed him against her torso so they were skin to skin. She covered them both with her shawl, and he quieted a little.

“I’ll feed you in a minute,” she murmured, “I’m knackered.”  Her eyes fluttered closed, and she shook her head, willing herself to stay awake. “Don’t let me fall asleep!” she called to Nancy, “we’ve got to wait for the afterbirth. You get a basin ready!”

It wasn’t long before it came, and Joan was relieved to see that it seemed to be intact. Nancy helped her over to a curtained off corner of the room, which the gang had done their best to make comfortable with old sacking, cushions, and blankets. Joan sank down into it gratefully, welcoming the softness. When she had got herself comfortable, she held the baby to her breast, and he latched on readily.

There was a timid knock on the door, and Nancy looked questioningly at Joan.

“Aye, they can come in.”

Nancy opened the door, and the children entered. There were four of them, a scrawny bunch, looking relieved to see Joan was all right. She felt a pang of guilt at having shut them out, but it didn’t last long. The day that she had a load of children under twelve in her birthing room was the day they should put her away.

“Are you all right?” asked George.

“Aye, I’m tired now though,” Joan replied, sleepily.

“What’s this?” asked Andrew, who was seven and therefore still at the age where touching anything new seemed like a good idea.

“That’s the afterbirth,” said Nancy, hurrying forward to take it from him, “let it alone.”

“The baby’s so tiny! Is he meant to be?” asked Frances. She was eleven, and had been concerned abut the baby ever since Joan told them she was pregnant.

“He is a little on the small side.” Joan yawned. She was pleased the children were interested, but too exhausted to answer their questions properly.

There was a short silence, broken by Anne, nine years old and quieter than the others, asking:

“What’ll you name him?”

“John,” said Joan, firmly.

“For the King?” asked Nancy.

“For the King.”

 

*

 

Joan let herself in quietly, but it seemed that no matter how soft her tread her son would always be able to detect her presence. No sooner as she had turned around, he was there.

“Mum!” he said, his voice full of excitement, “I’ve got to show you something!” He took her hand and tugged at it.

“All right, all right,” she said, laughing, “what is it?”

He snorted impatiently. “Just come and _see_.” He pulled her into the centre of the room. A string with a set of bells on and a pouch tied at the end hung from one of the joists that held up the ceiling, and Joan regarded it with horror.

“George set it up,” said John, “I’ve been practicing all day! Watch.” He reached into the pouch deftly and pulled out a scrap of cloth, without setting any of the bells jangling.

“Well done, lad!” she said, forcing a smile, “Very well done, aye.” She sat down, weakly.

John beamed. “Does this mean I can go out pickpocketing with the others?”

Her smile fell away. “No lad, I’m afraid not.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Mum, I’m _four_! Why can’t I go out yet?”

“You’re still too little, and you haven’t practiced enough with that,” she said, firmly, crossing her arms.

“But mum, look!” He put the scrap back in the pouch, and then took it out again, all without so much as a tinkle from the bells.

“Yes, that’s good,” she said, patiently, “but you need to be really good to go out. I couldn’t bear to see you caught.” Her voice broke on the last word, and suddenly she was choking back tears.

“Mum?” said John, his brows creasing in concern, “I’m sorry mum. I didn’t want to upset you.” He scrambled up into her lap and looked into her face intently.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said, pulling him into a hug, “it’s not your fault.”

 

A little while later the others returned to find them still in the chair, John asleep in Joan’s lap.

“How’d it go?” Joan asked.

“Usual day,” said George, as the party dumped the day’s takings on the table.

“I saw Nancy,” said Anne, “she was in the garden hanging out laundry.”

“How’s she getting on?” Joan asked, leaning forward curiously.

“I didn’t talk to her,” said Anne, “I thought we should let her be. But she looked tired.”

“She’s out of this,” Joan replied, gesturing to the dingy room, “that should be enough.” She noticed George going to leave. “Where are you off to?” she said, sharply.

“Just to get a drink,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Nowt wrong with that, is there?” He looked a little uncertain; Joan’s glare had been full of knives.

“You’ll wait a minute,” said Joan. She stood up, passing her sleeping son to Frances. She took George’s arm and pulling him roughly into the screened off corner.

“What did you set that up for?” She hissed.

“Set what up?” said George, bewildered.

“The bloody bells, lad! Why didn’t you ask me aforehand?”

“Well, he’s been asking for ages to-”

“He’s four, George!”

“So? I was pickpocketing at that age,” said George, a touch reproachfully. Joan thumped his arm.

“He’s no need to go out yet!” she whispered, her voice clipped with anger, “Why are you encouraging him?”

“He’s got to learn sometime,” said George, rubbing his arm.

“No he-” Joan stopped abruptly, and looked away.

“Oh, I see,” said George, “you think if you keep him from it long enough then he won’t have to become a thief?”

Joan was silent for a long time.

“It’s not the life I want for him,” she murmured, eventually.

“But it’s the life he’s going to have,” said George.

“I know,” said Joan, “but if I can keep him from it just a little longer…” she trailed off and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Off you go then, have your drink.”

George, relieved to be allowed to go, scurried off, and Joan went back into the main room. The other three stood about, projecting an air of innocence.

“No need to look like that,” said Joan, “I know you all listened in. I wouldn’t have raised you right if you hadn’t.”

Frances handed John back to her, and he stirred.

“Mum?” he said, through a yawn.

“Awake again?” she said. She sat down, with him on her knee. “Did I ever tell you the story of John Uskglass and the Edale ewes?”

John shook his head.

“You’ll like this one,” said Andrew, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “’tis a good ‘un.”

“Your mother tells the stories well,” said Frances, seating herself on an old fruit crate. Anne also sat down, and Joan, embarrassed but flattered by the attention, told the story.

 

*

 

John peered around the corner, and saw that the market square was full. He grinned, and was about to dash off into the crowd, but was stopped suddenly by a hand on his collar.

“Not yet!” Frances hissed, pulling him back harshly.

“That hurt,” John muttered, rubbing his throat. “Why not yet?”

“You’ve got to take things carefully. You can’t just go rushing in! You get reckless, you get caught, and that’s the truth. Besides, your mother’d tan both our hides if we got into trouble your first time out.” She peered into the crowd, scouting for a good mark.

She had to admit, John was ready. He was five now, and after a year of practice he’d got so good that he could pick his own mother’s pockets without her noticing. They’d practiced the tricks of the trade so often that he could practically do them in his sleep. There was nothing left that he could learn without trying it for real. She spied a likely looking target in the crowd and tapped John’s shoulder.

“Do you see the man by the fruit stand?”

John looked for a moment, then nodded. “No fastenings on his pockets,” he said, gleefully.

“You’ll choose him if you’ve got any sense,” said Frances, “don’t go up directly though; that’ll make him suspicious.”

John headed out into the throng. A small boy, his head at thigh-height, could slip through these crowds unseen, even without John’s training in inconspicuousness. He was thrilled. He was finally being allowed to do what the older children did, and he was determined to do it well.

He didn’t go directly to the fruit stand, but went by a roundabout way, keeping an eye on his target the whole time. When he reached the stand, he simply brushed by the man, carefully slipping his hand into his pocket and withdrawing a handful of coins. He was careful to not let the stallholder see him. Traders could be remarkably suspicious of ragged little boys.

Clutching his takings to his chest he hurried back to Frances and held them out, beaming.

“Good lad,” she said, taking them and patting him on the shoulder.

He grinned again. It was only a few ha’pennys, but he felt as proud as if they’d been guineas.

 

*

 

Joan let herself in, quietly. The children had got back before her, and were sat around waiting. George was repairing a tear in a shirt, Frances and Anne were had got the supper cooking, and Andrew was teaching John a card game. Joan tapped her son on the shoulder.

“There’s a priest in town offering reading lessons. You’re to go,” said Joan.

John looked up. “What, mum?”

“I said: you’re to learn to read,” Joan repeated, patiently.

“Why?” said John, “I don’t need to read for pickpocketing.”

“Because I can’t,” said Joan, “and it’s often I’ve regretted it. You’ll learn. It’ll stand you in good stead.” She turned to the other children. “I recommend you go and all. Nancy only got her job as a maid because she had her letters.”

“Why do they get a choice if I have to?” John whined.

“Because you’re my son, so’s you have to do what I say,” said Joan, impassively.

“The King couldn’t read, mum,” said John.

“No, but he had people to do it for him. Do you think you’re ever likely to be in a position to have people who can read for you?”

“No, mum,” said John, looking at the ground dejectedly. Joan turned back to the other children.

“So, what about it?”

George laughed. “No fear! I’ve got by just fine not being able to read so far. I’ll pass, if it’s all the same.”

Anne looked thoughtful. “I don’t want to be a thief my whole life,” she said, slowly, “knowing my letters’d be useful…”

“Why? Are you too good for us?” said George.

“Shut up, just ’ cause you don’t care for owt,” Andrew snapped. He looked at Joan. “I want to learn.”

“Well, if you two are going, I might as well,” said Frances, thoughtfully.

“Good,” said Joan, “you three can make sure John goes-”

“Mum, I won’t skive off!” John interrupted.

“What do you take me for, lad? A bloody fool? I know you will if you can get away with it,” said Joan, looking down at him. “The first class is tomorrow,” she continued, addressing everyone, “are you sure you won’t go, George?”

He shook his head and drew his knees up to his chest. “I don’t need to read. And why aren’t you going if you think it’s so important?”

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” said Joan.

“You’re not old, mum!” said John.

“But I’m old enough to be set in my ways,” she replied, “you aren’t. Learn to read, John, it might save you someday.”

 

*

 

The years went by, and though she tried with all her might, Joan could not keep her son safe from the world.

At age eight he was caught, after trying to steal from a man who had his wallet tied inside his pocket. He had been flogged and sent back to Joan still bleeding. The glamour that had seemed to surround pickpocketing when he was small was replaced with a constant fear of getting caught, though he would never admit that he was afraid.

But that was nothing compared to the day George was hanged. It left an ugly scar on the timeline of John’s life, and he vowed to never become so attached to his friends again. The pain of loss was awful and searing, and the risk too great in their criminal line of work. Distancing himself made it easier to bear when Frances left York to start her own gang, and when Anne was taken on as an assistant in a tailor’s shop.

He began to take notice of the pristine houses of the rich, and compared them with the damp cellar that he called home. He started to take a bitter joy in stealing from those who wore expensive clothes.

By age ten John had lost the innocence of childhood, and was more aware of the cruelties of the world than anyone in those huge houses could possibly comprehend.

 

John sat by the entrance to the cellar, his knees clasped to his chest, hunched up miserably. Hunger gnawed at his belly, but he ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on the street ahead of him.

Edie, one of the new members of their gang, came up from the cellar, and touched his shoulder. He flinched.

“John,” she said, hesitantly, “why don’t you come inside?”

He didn’t look up. “It’s been three days,” he said, “she said she’d be back.”

“She said _about_ three days, John,” said Edie, “why don’t you wait inside? It’s freezing out here.”

He made no reply. She sighed and went to go back in, but stopped at a sound behind her. She looked around and saw a group of children tramping up the street, headed by a boy a little older than her and John. It was Thompson’s gang, a larger and more successful one than Black Joan’s, and her heart sank. They reached the cellar, and the boy stepped forward, his arms folded.

“Where’s your mother, John?” he said.

“Leave me alone Robert,” said John, not looking up.

“I said, where’s your mother?” Robert persisted.

“I don’t know, all right!” John exclaimed, glaring at the other boy.

Robert grinned. “But you do though, don’t you? We all do.” There were a few sniggers from the children behind him.

“Why don’t you just push off?” said John, standing up, “We’ve done nothing to you!”

“We want your patch,” said Robert. John started forward, but Edie caught his arm.

“Leave him John,” she said, “he’s not worth it.” Behind her Andrew and Sam, the other new member of the gang, emerged from the cellar to see what the commotion was. They bristled at the sight of the rival children.

“What are they doing here?” Andrew asked Edie, fixing Robert with a glare.

“Looking for trouble. We’re not going to give it to them, are we Andrew?”

“No,” he said, folding his arms. He nodded to Robert, “You came looking for a fight, and you won’t find one here, so just move on.” He stared at the younger boy and took a step forwards. Robert’s eyes widened; he was suddenly frightened now that he was no longer confronting John, a skinny ten year old, but Andrew, who was seventeen and had grown very tall.

“All right,” he said, backing away, “but don’t forget, John,” he called, from the safety of his group, “your mother’s a whore.”

Suddenly John was on him, bearing him to the ground. Andrew swore and darted forward to try and separate them, receiving for his trouble a vicious kick to the shin. He limped back and watched helplessly as a ring of children closed around the fight. Edie and Sam cheered for John and hurled insults at the opposing gang, while the other children jeered back.

Robert was the larger combatant, but John was fuelled by fury and was holding nothing back. He bit, scratched, kicked, and punched, not noticing the few blows that Robert landed on him. Eventually they rolled so he was on top, and he pressed his arm over the other boy’s throat.

“Don’t you ever use that word,” he growled, angry tears starting in his eyes, “don’t you ever!”

So preoccupied was he with his opponent that he didn’t notice the sudden cessation of noise from the watching children, nor the growing sense of space as they backed away from the fight, leaving John and Robert lying in the dirt. He didn’t even notice the hand on the back of his shirt until it pulled him backwards and set him on his feet.

“What is going on here?!” Joan shouted, trembling with anger. She shook John by his shirt, and when he did not reply she pushed him towards the cellar. “Get inside! And you…” She bent down to Robert, who was white with fear and lack of air, lifting him up by his shirtfront. “How dare you come here?” She gave him a look of pure contempt and pushed him back towards his gang, so hard that he fell to the ground before scrambling to his feet and rushing to safety. “Get away from here!” she screamed, “Get away!” She watched them run, then followed her son into the cellar.

John was sat in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on them. He flinched at the sight of her.

“What was that about?” she said, icily.

“It was just a fight, mum,” he replied, not looking up, “leave it be.”

“I won’t, not until I know what possessed you to be so _stupid_!” She was shaking with anger now.

“You were gone away so _long_ mum!” John shouted, suddenly, “I didn’t know when you were coming back! And he said you were a whore, and I couldn’t let him say that.” He buried his face in his knees, and his shoulders shook as he started to sob. Joan’s face fell, and her anger melted away. She sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry I went away,” she said, quietly.

“No, mum, I know you had to. I just got scared that weren’t coming back.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of blood.

“I know, love, I know. I had to go ‘cause pickings have been so lean recently, and I hate to see you go hungry. If there was any other way I wouldn’t leave you, but I had to get us food.” She looked up suddenly. “The food! I left it in the street!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” said Andrew, limping down the cellar steps, “your son’s got a mighty kick on him, Joan.”

“I’m sorry, Andy,” said John, smiling sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it; I probably would have punched him too had I not got more sense.” Andrew grinned, and John grinned back. “So,” said Andrew, “are we eating or not?”

“Aye, I-” Joan stopped, “did you hear that?”

They listened, and heard it: a muffled cawing. Joan scrambled to her feet and hurried up the cellar steps, closely followed by the boys. The ravens had been attracted by the smell of the food, and Joan smiled to see them.

“You don’t often get them in the city now,” she said, sitting down, “we’ll eat out here.”

“But it’s freezing-” Edie began.

“You’ll not argue with me, girl. Sit down, all of you.”

They passed the basket around, and when it reached Joan she tore off a few lumps of ham and tossed them to the ravens.

“Hey!” said Sam, “Come off it Joan, that’s our first food for days!”

“Swans may be the birds of the phoney down south,” said Joan, biting into a piece of bread, “but these are _our_ King’s birds. It pays to befriend them.”

The ravens watched them with curiously bright, intelligent eyes. John found himself awed by them, and amazed that they would get so close. They hopped around for a while, and when it seemed that no more food was forthcoming, they took off. John watched them spiral upwards, and gasped. Just for a moment the silhouette of one had been the very picture of the bird on the King’s flag.

 

*

 

Eventually, the gang became too well-known in York to have any semblance of safety from the law. They packed up their few possessions and headed to Whitby, except Andrew, who was becoming too conspicuous for pickpocketing anyway. He decided to seek his fortunes elsewhere, and Joan felt a bitter sadness saying goodbye to him, as he was the last of the children she had known since before John’s birth.

Whitby was smaller than York, but John loved the sea, and some days, when there was not much work to be done, he would just sit and watch it lap up against the shore.

Winter arrived. This was always a hard time for the gang, as the cold meant they had need for warmer clothes. Everyone slowed down in winter, and there were fewer crowds, meaning far less opportunity for pickpocketing. It was worse in Whitby than York, for it was a smaller town, and Joan, in desperation to provide for the little gang, got careless.

 

Joan winced at the tinkle of broken glass. It seemed cacophonously loud, though she had done her best to muffle it with rags. She reached in and undid the catch, sliding the window open. She climbed inside and looked around. Silverware, that was what she should look for, it was easy to carry, but it fetched a handsome price.

She hadn’t broken into a house since she was a girl, it being far more dangerous than pickpocketing, but there were plenty of younger women working the docks, and her usual fall-back wasn’t proving to be enough.

She crept into the kitchen, and began to cram the sack she had brought with her with the contents of the cutlery drawers.

“Harleigh? What are you doing?”

Joan whirled round at the voice, and saw a man in a night shirt, holding a candle. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

“I say, you’re not Harleigh! Drummond! Thatcher!” he bellowed, “Now, miss, stay where you are-”

Joan bolted, running for the kitchen door and straight into the arms of two burly men. They were still half asleep, but they caught her and held her fast. The man with the candle plucked the sack from her hand and stared at her haughtily.

“I will be having that back, and now, it seems, I have to go and fetch the magistrates.”

Joan watched him go, as she hung helplessly in the men’s arms. She was too numb too protest, too numb to think, even, but dread sat in the pit of her stomach like a block of ice.

 

It was a cold day. A few flakes of snow blew across the square, carried by a bitter wind. The scaffold was distant, and could only just be seen over the heads of the crowd. John stared fixedly at it, and Edie touched his arm, gently.

“We don’t have to watch,” she said.

“She’ll get out of it somehow. I know it,” said John, with the barest hint of a tremor in his voice.

“John, I think we should go,” said Sam.

“Go then!” John snapped, “Go if you’re afraid!”

“We won’t leave you,” said Sam, quietly.

John turned away. “She’ll be all right. She has to be.”

Up on the scaffold, Joan peered out into the crowd, and her chest tightened when she saw the three young figures at the back.

“No,” she whispered, then suddenly she shouted: “No! Don’t watch this! Get away!”

She lurched forward, desperate to reach the children, desperate to reach her son, but the hangman grabbed hold of her and pulled her back. She was sobbing as he placed the noose around her neck; it felt like it was killing her already, though it only sat on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, John,” she choked, “I’m sorry…”

The snap as the trapdoor opened hit John like punch to the gut. He stumbled backwards, still staring at the scaffold, not believing that what he was seeing could possibly be true.

Edie had expected him to scream, to cry out, to do _something_. Instead, he simply stood there. After a long moment, he turned and walked away.

“John!” she called, choking back tears, “Where are you going?”

He made no reply, and when she darted forward to put her hand on his shoulder he pulled away and kept walking. She tried again, and he pushed her away this time.

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, “I want to be alone!”

“John…” she whispered, reaching out one more time.

“No!” he pulled away and started running. He turned down an alley, and when Edie and Sam followed, he was nowhere to be seen. They glanced at each other, and by one consensus they split up to look for him, but though they searched for hours they could not find him. He did not want to be found.

 

John walked with no destination in mind. He simply had to get away. His ill-fitting shoes rubbed up blisters on his feet, but he paid them no mind. The awful pain of loss was much greater, and it constricted his chest, making it hard to breath.

“You, boy!” called a voice. It was full of arrogance, and John turned angrily.

“ _What_?” he said, filling the syllable with venom.

The owner of the voice, a man wearing a rich coat and shiny boots, seemed oblivious to his tone. “I need you to deliver a message for me,” he said, “there’s a shiny penny in it for you!”

“No,” said John.

“Excuse me, boy? What was that?” said the man, perplexed.

“I said no,” John answered, and was about to turn away, but something on the wall behind the man had caught his eye.

The man, unable to factor into his worldview a street urchin who would _not_ do anything for a penny, simply said: “did you not hear me, boy? I said I’ll pay you.”

“I heard,” said John, walking past the man. “And I said no.” He pulled down the notice that had caught his attention. He crumpled it into his pocket, and turned towards the docks.

He walked away, leaving the man speechless.

 

John took out the flyer and looked down at it.

 

**HELP WANTED!**

**Cabin boy required.**

**Apply to Captain Gordon Halter**

**of the _Catherine of Winchester_**

 

It was not far to the docks, and it was the work of a moment to find the _Catherine of Winchester_. There was a man sitting on the bollard to which it was moored. John held out the notice.

“I’m looking for Captain Halter,” he said.

“That’d be me,” said the man, “this is one of mine. You get someone to read it for you, lad?”

“I can read,” said John. Captain Halter scoffed. John had no patience for anything of that sort, so he went over to the wall, where there were other notices pasted up, and read one at random. “For rent,” he said, acidly, “one room in convenient situation near the docks. Price negotiable. Apply to-”

Captain Halter held up a hand. “All right, lad. I take it back.” He stood up. “Ever been on a ship before?”

John shook his head. “But I’m a quick learner.”

“I bet you are.” The captain paused and looked John up and down, thoughtfully. “What are you looking to get away from?”

John said nothing.

“Fine. Fine. You don’t want to say.”

Captain Halter walked around John, and John felt uncomfortably like a horse being surveyed at a market. The captain stopped in front of him and folded his arms. “It’s your lucky day, lad. To own the truth I’d given up hope of getting any applicants. No one wants to sail in the winter. The job’s yours, God help you.” He sat back down on the bollard. “I’ll need to know your name, and I know whatever you give me’ll be made up, so make it a good one.”

“John,” said John, and paused. He had no surname, and the one he usually gave, Black, was too painful too use. That name belonged to his mother. The captain was getting impatient, and John racked his brains for something to choose. Then it hit him, like a blow to the chest.

John had attended a few sermons, more out of interest than belief, and he knew enough to know what today was, this awful day that would forever be burned onto his heart. He knew the name of this day, and he knew that he would take this name as his own.

“Childermass,” he said.

 

“You are the new cabin boy, yes?” The man spoke with an accent, one that John did not recognise.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, “my name’s John Childermass. Captain Halter sent me down to help you.”

“How kind of him,” the man muttered, “to give me an untrained boy to get under my feet. _Merde_.”

John, unsure of how to proceed, remained standing by the galley entrance. Suddenly, the ship lurched, and he stumbled and almost fell.

“You have not been on a ship before!” said the man, laughing, “You do not yet have your sea legs.” He beckoned to John. “Come, cut up these onions. My name is Pierre. I am the ship’s cook.”

“I’d realised that,” John muttered, coming to stand by the man. He planted his legs wide for stability, and then picked up an onion and peeled it. He made the first slice, and suddenly Pierre snatched it out of his hands.

“Hey-” he began.

“No, you silly English boy!” said Pierre, “Why is it that no Englishman I meet can cut an onion properly? Like _this_.” He demonstrated, and then handed the onion back to John. John cut it as Pierre had done, and the cook seemed satisfied. As he moved on to the next onion, Pierre spoke.

“I suppose you are wondering what a Frenchman is doing on an English ship?”

“Yes,” said John, who had not been, but his curiosity was piqued now.

“No French ship would have me,” Pierre said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I was a thief in my home country.”

John, the last person who would disapprove of someone being a thief, nodded with something like respect.

“Captain Halter’s crew is full of misfits,” Pierre continued. “There are not many men willing to sail in winter.” He paused and stirred a pot, then said, slowly: “what makes you join our crew, John Childermass?”

John said nothing.

“You do not want to say, I understand,” said Pierre. The pot he was stirring hissed and spat, and a hot droplet landed on his arm. “Merde!”

“What does that mean?” John asked.

“It is a bad word. I will teach you better words in my language.” He pointed to one of the onions on the board. “Oignon, that is a good word. And you are ‘un garçon’, a boy. ‘Mère’ is my favourite word. That means mother.”

John turned away abruptly, his expression closed.

“A sore subject?” said Pierre, “Well, how about ‘voleur’?” He nudged John with his elbow and grinned. “That means thief.”

“Vole-er,” John repeated.

Pierre winced. “Your pronunciation hurts my ears. I will teach you proper French, and I pray to God that your accent will become less strong!”

John, a Yorkshireman to the marrow of his bones, merely smiled.

 

*

 

John stepped off the gangplank, and onto Yorkshire ground. He rolled back on his heels, closed his eyes, and smiled. This was _his_ turf.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay with us, Childermass?” came a shout from behind him. John turned, and saw Captain Halter leaning over the side of the ship.

“No, sir, thank you!” he called back, waving, “I have been away from Yorkshire long enough!” He spotted the ship’s cook a little way behind the captain, and called: “Oh revwa, Pierre!”

Pierre shook his head. “It’s ‘au revoir’, you fool!” he shouted, “No Frenchman will understand you!”

“Ah, but I will be able to understand them! Thank you for teaching me, Pierre!”

“Le plaisir était pour moi! I wish you well!”

John waved again, then set off into the crowd.

 

John was growing too big and too noticeable to have any safety as a pickpocket, but hard work and regular meals on the ship had toned his muscles, and while he was still skinny, he had a wiry strength. There were always loads to move about at Whitby docks, and he earned enough to survive. It was in doing this that he met the sailor.

It was now summer, and John was part of a little group of dockworkers unloading what was currently the largest ship in the port. It was while he carried boxes down the gangplank that he saw one of the sailors overturn an empty fruit crate, and lay out on it eight cards. John watched in fascination, for they were like no cards he had ever seen.

Another of the dockworkers, a huge man that everyone knew as Big Ronnie, cuffed John upside the head. “Less staring, more working!” he said, “There’s plenty others who’d take this job you know.”

John glared at him reproachfully and went back to work. It took another hour or so, and when he’d finished he was relieved to see that the sailor was still there. A small crowd had gathered, and the sailor was just turning over the last card on the crate. A small, jittery man sat in front of him.

“Well?” said the little man.

The sailor paused for a moment, thoughtfully. “You will leave Whitby soon,” he said, “to see an old friend. There is money involved.”

“Can’t you be more specific?” said the little man.

“Afraid not,” said the sailor, scooping up the cards, “it’s not a precise art.”

The little man got up and walked away, looking disappointed.

“Who’s next?” said the sailor. A woman sat down in front of him.

John watched as the sailor told more fortunes, and after a while he began to see patterns in the cards. He began to recognise what they said before the sailor himself did. After an even longer time, he began to spot things in the cards that the sailor missed

It began to grow dark, and slowly the crowd around the sailor dissipated.

“Come on over, lad,” said the sailor, beckoning to John, “don’t think I didn’t spot you lurking around. Like the cards do you?”

“Aye,” said John, coming forward, “what are they?”

“They’re the Cards of Marseilles, boy. For fortune telling.”

“I’d gathered that,” said John, “can I borrow them?”

“Excuse me?” said the sailor.

“I asked if I could borrow them. I want to copy them.”

“Why would I give them to a scraggly little street urchin like you?” the sailor leaned back and folded his arms.

“I’ll bring them back.” John gestured to the cards, and grinned. “They’ll vouch for me.”

Slowly, the sailor laid out the cards and turned them over. “Well, you’re right, they do indeed.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then handed the cards over. “Have them back by the morning. We sail two hours after dawn.”

“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” said John, standing up and pocketing the cards. “I’ll bring them back, don’t worry.”

 

On his way back to his lodgings, a curtained off corner of a room that housed a larger family, John kept an eye out for posters hanging loose on the walls. He pulled a few down and pocketed them, keeping a careful watch that he was not spotted. When he reached his lodgings he got a small box out from under the narrow bed. It was full of receipts, old notices, and posters. John was too poor to afford anything more than food, clothes, and a bed, so he hoarded scraps from wherever he could find them. It wasn’t just paper, but paper was what he needed tonight. He cadged a pen and ink from the disgruntled landlady, then set to work. He started by carefully tearing the paper scraps into little rectangles, before beginning to copy the cards. It was more difficult than he had expected, and his first few attempts went straight into the bin, but gradually he improved, and became so absorbed in the task that he did not notice the sun filtering in through the grimy shutters.

It was fully daylight before he noticed, indeed, almost two hours after dawn as far as he could tell from the sun. He was not finished, but he made a note of those he still had to copy, then scooped up the deck and ran down to the docks. The sailor was there, tapping his foot.

“There you are boy!” he said, “I thought for a moment that my cards had lied to me and you weren’t coming. Did you get them all copied?”

John shook his head. “I’ve remembered the ones I still need to do.”

“You’ll have a unique deck,” said the sailor, taking his cards, “that’ll be interesting for you.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I wish you luck with it.”

 

*

 

John stayed in Whitby another year, scraping a living at the docks but also, in his rare free time, practising using his cards. It was difficult at first. They showed him concepts and ideas, which were hard to put into words. But he was fascinated by them, and kept working with them until their meaning was as clear to him as rainwater.

After this, he headed to York. It was with some apprehension that he returned to the city of his birth. He wondered what he would recognise and, more worryingly, what would have changed. Along the way he did a few readings for other travellers, and was surprised to find that the pay was quite reasonable.

For the first few days in York he slept in doorways, under newspapers, and it was in doing this that he met Mrs Franley.

 

It was never a good idea to stay in one neighbourhood when you were sleeping rough; it far increased the chance of someone reporting you to the magistrates. John moved around, and on his fifth night back in York the doorstep he happened to choose belonged to the widow Franley.

John woke early, intending to move on before the owner of the house awoke, but as he was stuffing his newspaper down his shirt the door opened, and he looked up into a woman’s astonished face.

He jumped up and made to dash off, but the woman stopped him by grabbing the back of his collar.

“Where are you going off to so quick?” she said, “Don’t you want to stay for tea?”

 

John sat hunched on the kitchen stool, feeling only slightly embarrassed about the greasy marks his fingers were leaving on his fine china teacup. He pocketed the teaspoon, which he was sure was silver, and watched the woman carefully. Surprisingly, she did not seem at all suspicious of him, and was instead opening cupboards in search of milk. Eventually, when she had looked in all of them and was starting again from the beginning, John said:

“It’s all right, I don’t need it.”

The woman turned to him. Her face was wrinkled with age, like an old apple, and she wore an expression of puzzlement.

“I was sure I bought some only yesterday!” she said, “Ah well, we shall make do.” She sat down opposite him, and picked up her own teacup. “Now, my lad, what were you doing on my doorstep?”

“I slept there last night, madam,” he replied, sipping the tea. It was bitter without milk, but pleasant nonetheless. She looked at him for a long moment, and he squirmed under her gaze. Eventually, he blurted out: “Are you going to report me to the magistrates?”

She shook her head, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Vagrancy, madam,” he said. This was truly puzzling him now. The woman was obviously middle-class, and people like her normally treated street boys like him as something worse than the muck in a gutter.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I shouldn’t do that. It’s not your fault you haven’t got a place to stay.” She looked down at the table, and stood up suddenly. “Oh dear! I’ve forgotten the milk!” She went back to the cupboards, and began searching through them again.

“Madam, you looked for milk not five minutes ago,” said John.

“Did I? Oh dear, I’ll forget my own head next.” She sat back down, and looked at her milkless tea disapprovingly. “Are you sure it’s all right without milk- I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“I hadn’t said, madam,” said John. “it’s Childermass, John Childermass.”

“My name is Mrs Franley, Childermass,” she said. She looked wistful. “Mr Franley died some years ago. You know, I can’t even remember how many now. Mr Franley was a shoemaker,” she continued, “he made very good boots. I remember once, a man came from Sheffield to buy boots from him, and when he went home he told everyone how good they were…”

John sat back and sipped his tea as Mrs Franley reminisced about her husband. Her voice was calming, as was the tea, and he allowed himself to relax a little. She was a confused at times, repeating things she had said already and getting up twice more to look for milk. John finished his tea, and Mrs Franley paused in her story to refill his cup.

“Where are you staying tonight, Childermass?”

He shrugged. “Another doorstep I suppose madam.”

“Oh dear! No, we can’t have that!” she said, almost spilling the tea in her conviction, “I have a spare room. How would you like that? I wouldn’t charge rent, just contributions for food. Maybe you could run some errands for me.”

John was stunned. This woman really did think of him as an innocent boy who was just down on his luck. He was so used to being distrusted that it came as a shock. He looked into the woman’s eyes, certain of finding some clue that she was joking, but instead saw something else. She was lonely.

“Thank you madam,” he said, “that would be most appreciated.”

She nodded with satisfaction. “Good, we have an arrangement. Now, will you pop out and buy some milk for me, Childermass?”

He shrugged and nodded. She smiled and handed him a few coins, and as he pocketed them his hand brushed against the spoon he had stashed there. Guiltily, he took it out and placed it on the table while Mrs Franley wasn’t looking.

He headed out into the streets and towards the market, feeling the weight of the coins in his pocket. He wasn’t sure how to feel about being trusted so readily. He had a reputation after all. He was a thief. But on the other hand, and on a level he did not fully register, it was good to have found someone who saw a street urchin and did not automatically think ‘criminal’.

 

*

 

   John began to make a living from his cards, with the occasional supplementation from a return to pickpocketing. He was still poor, but living with Mrs Franley and not having to pay board meant he was a little more well off than he had been in Whitby. It was rare that he went hungry now, and by the standards of his life so far this was luxury. True, the old lady sometimes forgot who he was and more than once he had had something thrown at him when she thought he was an intruder, but he liked her, and her conversation was interesting. Often it was about Mr Franley, and often she repeated stories she had already told, but Mrs Franley’s life was not uninteresting. By most people’s standards, it was perhaps mundane, but John liked to hear tales of a normalcy that he had never experienced.

He continued to improve at reading the cards, and news began to spread that he was the one to see for an accurate reading. It had come as a shock, the first time someone he did not know stopped him and asked if he was John Childermass. The pickpocket’s first instinct, when stopped by a stranger, is to run, but John stayed where he was and learned that he was becoming known as a fortune-teller. The cards were John’s employment now, and he was proud about that. It felt a little like magic.

 

John knocked on the door and stepped back to wait. He had found that some of the customers in his new business did not like to be seen with him in the open, so he went to their houses, and charged them double. This house was not particularly large, but it was bigger than any John had ever lived in, and the façade was neat and tidy. The door was opened by a tired looking maid, about John’s own age.

“Are you the fortune-teller?” she said.

“Aye,” he replied, inclining his head slightly.

“I think the master would have preferred you to come to the back door,” she said, but there was no reproach in her voice. Indeed, she appeared to be concealing a smile.

“Would he now?” said John, stepping over the threshold, “That’s a shame, ’cause I won’t.”

The maid put her hand over her mouth to conceal a giggle. “He’s in his study,” she said, through laughter,” I’ll take you to him.”

John took his boots off, for the maid’s sake. In a house this size, she was probably the only servant, and she didn’t need extra work cleaning up his muddy footprints. The study, like the rest of the house, was very neat, as was the man who sat at the desk. Everything about him was meticulously ordered, and John felt an instant dislike.

The man looked up, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Why, you’re just a boy!” He exclaimed.

“I’m fifteen, sir,” said John, reproachfully.

“I’d been expecting someone older-” the man began.

“A wizard?” said John, incredulously, “With a long beard and stars all over his clothes?”

The man stared at John for a moment, then gave a neat little cough. “Well, yes, one shouldn’t make assumptions. Do sit down.”

John sat on a velvet-cushioned chair, and the man winced almost imperceptibly as he did so.

“Something, wrong, sir?” John said, innocently, though he knew that the man was only concerned for his upholstery.

“No, no,” said the man, hurriedly, “well, this is much better than some dirty yellow-curtained tent, isn’t it?”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m not a conjuror, sir. I only read the cards.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and eventually the man said:

“Are you going to read them or not, then?”

“Money first, if you don’t mind,” said John.

“Why?” said the man. It was almost a whine.

John sighed. “The fortunes I tell are true, sir, and they are not always pleasant. I have learned that if people don’t like what they hear, they are disinclined to pay.”

The man pursed his lips, but reached into a pocket and handed John some coins. John counted them to make sure it was the right amount and then, satisfied, he took out his cards.

He laid them out one by one, while his client watched with bated breath. He turned them over, and considered their meaning briefly.

“You are going to have some success in your business,” he said, “and you will leave York.” He looked at the cards again, and tutted. “And your lady does not love you back.”

“Oh,” said the man, disappointed, “well. That is a shame.” He slumped in his chair, and John felt compelled to point out the business success again.

“Well, I concede, there is that,” said the man, still looking dejected.

John stood up and touched his forelock. “Good day to you, sir,” he said, and left. The infuriating neatness was getting to him. He collected his boots and said farewell to the maid. He stood on the doorstep for a moment, breathing in the crisp morning air. The coins sat comfortably in his pocket, and he smiled briefly.

 

*

 

John lived with Mrs Franley for another two years, and would have gone on doing so, had it not been for a chance encounter in front of a bookshop.

 

It was John’s seventeenth birthday, though he did not know it and had been saying that he was seventeen for a month now. He was on his way to the market, where he knew there was a good chance of finding people who wanted to know their fortunes. He turned a corner, and collided with a man coming from the other direction. The other man had been carrying a stack of books, and these flew into the air as both John and he fell to the ground. John picked himself up and dusted off his coat.

“Oh dear, will you look at that?” The other man was knelt down, holding one of the books and looking mournfully at a corner of the cover that had been crushed in the fall.

“My apologies, Mr…” John trailed off.

“Norrell,” said the other man. He was not very old, his mid-twenties perhaps, but he wore a grey wig.

“Mr Norrell,” John repeated. He picked up one of the books that had fallen near him. He glanced at the cover, and the title caught his eye: _A Treatise on the Use of Plant Matter in Aureate Magic_. Intrigued, John picked up another book, then another, then another. They were all, in some way, about magic.

Mr Norrell coughed, and John handed over the stack of books.

“These do not seem to be too badly damaged,” he said.

“On the contrary,” said Mr Norrell, “any damage to them must be considered a disaster! Some of these books are the only copies of their work, and they are all very old! Good day!” Clutching the books to his chest, he walked a little way down the street, glancing reproachfully back at John. He got into a carriage that had been waiting, and John watched it trundle off, deep in thought. Eventually he came to a decision, and turned away from the markets, a new destination in mind. Behind him, a raven fluttered up into the air.

 

The Raven’s Feather was where you went if you wanted to find information. It was a hive of gossip, and the beer was cheap and loosened people’s tongues.

John sat at the bar and ordered a pint of the terrible beer. He sipped it slowly for a while, then turned to the old man sat next to him. Old men always seemed to know something about everything.

“Tell me, sir,” said John, “have you ever heard of a man called Norrell?”

“What’s that lad?” the old man slurred, “Norrell? Now, let’s see…” He paused. Deep in thought, and then shouted to another man a little way down the bar: “Oi, Arthur, there’s a lad here wants to know about Mr Norrell!”

John winced. He had hoped to keep his enquiry private. Arthur, another old man, slipped off his stool and walked towards them. He peered at John, and asked:

“Who wants to know?”

“John Childermass,” said John, calmly.

“Oh, aye, I think you’re the lad who did a reading for my wife. You said she was going to get back in contact with an old friend, and she did, by God!” He clapped John on the shoulder, and sat down next to him. “I’ll tell you about Mr Norrell!” He looked around conspiratorially, and then spoke in a way that he probably thought was furtive, but really carried down the whole bar: “He’s got a big estate in the country, inherited from some relative I heard. Hurtfew Abbey. My niece’s friend works in a village near there, and she says he’s very quiet, very solitary.”

Another man, a younger man this time, leant over from a few stools down and said: “I heard he keeps having to hire new servants. He can’t keep ‘em, I heard.”

After this, rumour just flooded in. Most people had heard something, it seemed.

I heard he’s doing black magic! I heard the Abbey was the Raven King’s! I heard he turns his servants into birds, and that’s why he keeps hiring! I heard he buys every book of magic he can find! I heard he’s the Raven King reincarnated! I heard he hates people and turns his visitors into mice! I heard, I heard, I heard…

John sat back and let the tide of information flow over him. Most of it was untrue, he knew, but there was a picture of truth to be found in amongst the rumours and exaggerations. Half an hour later, he walked back out into the street, his mind made up.

 

It was a long walk to Hurtfew, and John could not afford to hire a horse, so he did not go until the next day. That left him time to make arrangements for Mrs Franley, as if his plan went right, he would no longer be living with her. He knew exactly who to go to.

 

The shop bell tinkled as John entered. Anne looked up at the sound, and her eyes widened.

“John?” she said, quietly.

“Aye,” he said, smiling, “It’s good to see you, Anne.”

She had a tape measure around her neck, and it streamed out behind her as she rushed around the counter and cannoned into him, squeezing him in a tight hug. After a long time, she released him, and looked up at him, smiling.

“God, last time I saw you, you only came up to my shoulder,” she said, “now you tower over me! How long’s it been? Seven years?”

John nodded. “I’ve missed you, Anne.”

“Oh, and I have you,” she said. “How is Joan?”

One look at his face was all it took, and she raised her hand to her mouth in disbelief.

“No…” she said, shaking her head slowly, “That can’t be.”

“Anne, she was hanged.” John’s voice caught on the last word. She hugged him again, and he buried his face in her shoulder. A few tears leaked out from under his eyelids.

“John, I am so sorry,” she said, her voice muffled slightly by his coat, “when?”

“Five years back,” he replied, pulling away and wiping his face on the sleeve of his coat, “and it still hurts as bad as it did then.”

“Oh, I bet it does, lad. When I lost my parents, well… a wound like that doesn’t heal.”

John nodded, then composed himself. “Anne, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“What is it that you need?” There was no hesitation in her voice. Old loyalties had stayed true, it seemed.

“There’s an old lady, and she’s not well in her head. She gets confused. I’ve been living with her, but I intend to move away tomorrow. Will you watch out for her when I’m gone? She doesn’t charge rent, just contributions to food.”

“That sound like you’re doing a favour to me! “ Anne exclaimed, “Rent-free lodgings, John? That’s a bloody miracle!”

“You’re to promise to look out for her, though,” said John, “will you do that?”

Anne nodded, with conviction. “Don’t worry yourself, I’ll see her right.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll take you to meet her when you get off work.”

“I finish at seven,” she said, “I’ll meet you here.”

 

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Mrs Franley’s eyes were wide with shock, and John felt a twinge of guilt.

“I am sorry, but I have decided to apply for a position at an estate not far from here,” he said.

“As a servant, Childermass? That’s most unlike you!”

John pursed his lips. That was indeed true, and it had been the only thing to give him pause about his decision.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “the master of the house is engaged in work that I am interested in.”

Mrs Franley sank into a chair. “But I’ve got so used to having you around,” she said, quietly.

“You won’t be alone,” he said, gesturing to Anne, “I’ve asked Anne if she will stay with you.”

He nodded to her and she stepped forward.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. Mrs Franley ignored her; she appeared to be thinking.

“Anne… Anne…” she said, slowly, “you know, my husband’s sister was called Anne. She was a very nice woman as I recall, and we were great friends.” She gestured for Anne to sit down. “We got into quite some scrapes you know, when we were younger. There was one instance where some new curtains I had ordered went missing, and we tracked them all across York!”

“We had a similar problem in our shop,” said Anne, “a roll of very expensive silk went missing from one of our shipments, and I spent a week finding out where it had ended up!”

John smiled and went up to bed, leaving them talking. He had no worries about Mrs Franley now. Anne was one of the very few people who he trusted absolutely.

 

He woke early the next morning, and when he came downstairs he was surprised to find Mrs Franley waiting for him. She was standing in the kitchen with her arms folded, tapping her foot.

“Do you really expect to apply for a position looking like that, young man?”

“Well, yes,” said John, taken aback.

“No, you are far too scruffy!” She turned to the kitchen table, on which was a small pile of clothes. “I found a few of Mr Franley’s old things that the moths haven’t got. I should be glad if you took what fits you.” She handed him a clean white shirt, far better than the patched, yellowing one he was currently wearing. He slipped off his shirt and put the new one on. It was a little big, but none of his clothes had ever fitted him well, and too big was better than too small.

“Thank you-” he began.

“There’s a coat as well,” she said, passing it to him. It was more worn than the shirt, but again it was better than his old one, which was more patch than original fabric.

“Are you sure I can take these?” he said, “They were Mr Franley’s after all.”

“He has no use for them,” she replied, a little sadly.

“Well, if you are sure, madam,” he said, shrugging on the new coat. “I should be going now, it’s a long walk.”

“Not yet,” she said, picking up a hairbrush, “I don’t know when the last time was that you did anything with your hair, but it looks like a birds nest.”

He backed away, but she advanced on him and attacked his head with the brush. After several minutes of painful detangling she took out a short length of string and tied his hair back into a ponytail.

“There,” she said, “much more respectable.” She looked up at him, and then, suddenly, burst into tears. “Oh, I shall miss you Childermass! It will be so lonely without you!”

“It’s all right Mrs Franley,” he said, “Anne will be coming to live with you. Do you remember Anne? You talked about haberdashery with her last night.”

“What?” she said, looking up at him, her eyes red-rimmed, “Oh, I do remember! How silly of me! But nevertheless, boy, I shall miss you still.” She pulled him into a hug, which startled him, but after a moment he hugged her back.

“And I shall miss you,” he said, quietly. He had not realised until this moment, but it was painful to leave the old woman. He pulled away from the hug, and touched his forelock.

“Thank you for everything, madam.”

“And the same to you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Goodbye, Childermass.”

John gave a small smile. “Goodbye.”

 

It was indeed a long walk to Hurtfew, and it was late afternoon by the time John got there, tired and footsore. Though it irked him no end, he went to the tradesman’s entrance. He wanted to make a good first impression.

He knocked on the door, and it was opened by a man who looked very much like a butler.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said John, “I heard that there was a position open, for a footman?”

“God, yes,” said the man, “come in, do!” he gestured to the kitchen table, and seated himself opposite John. “Any previous experience in service, lad?”

“No sir,” said John. He knew this would make it harder to get a position, especially one as high up as footman.

The butler clapped his hands. “Excellent, no preconceived ideas!” He leaned forward.  “This is a very unusual house.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. This was certainly not what he had been expecting. Taken aback, and still feeling that he had to make points in his favour, he added: “I can read and write, sir.”

“Really? Well, that’s just a bonus! How soon can you start?”

John, still reeling at the unexpected ease of acceptance, said: “Today, if you wish it sir.

The butler sighed with relief. “That is a weight off my shoulders. My name is Mr Sumner, I am the butler here.”

“Childermass. John Childermass.”

“Well, we shall be very glad to have you, Childermass. We’re run off our feet!” He stood up and placed a tray in John’s hands, beginning to pile it with tea things. “Sorry to put you to work straight away, but Mr Norrell was expecting his tea an hour ago, and we just lost a maid and another footman this morning. Oh, that reminds me.” He looked to the other end of the kitchen and called: “Martha, will you take the last two rooms on the second floor? Mary was supposed to clean them, but, well…”

The maid sighed and nodded. “Yes, Mr Sumner.”

“Good, good.” He placed a final spoon carefully on the tray and picking up another tray himself. “Follow me, Childermass. He does get very irritable if he doesn’t get his tea…”

John followed Sumner up a flight of steps and into the main part of the house. He gazed around in wonderment. It was huge. Never had he been in a house as large as this. He wanted a moment to look around, but Sumner was striding onward.

“A house this size should be bustling with servants,” said the butler, as they walked, “you know how many we have? Eight! Myself, a cook, two footmen, including yourself, a coachman, and just three maids! I can never find staff who are willing to stay long at all.”

John nodded, unsure of how to reply, and followed Mr Sumner through what seemed like endless rooms until they came to a simple wooden door.

“It gets a little odd from here,” said Mr Sumner, “I suppose you have heard that Mr Norrell has been purchasing books of magic?”

John nodded.

“Good. Well, I must warn you, his study is not entirely theoretical.”

John’s heart leapt; this was what he had been hoping for.

“Beyond this door is his library, which he has seen fit to conceal in a maze. He won’t like me bringing you in here so soon, but as he insists on scaring away my staff with his magic I am coming to care little about what he wants. Still, it’s probably best if you stay out of sight this first time.” Sumner pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Follow me closely; it’s easy to get lost if you haven’t been shown the way to navigate it.”

It was indeed a maze, and a magical one. There was no possible way it could have fitted inside a house, even one this large. John looked around in wonderment at each twist and bend.

“Do you know,” said Sumner after a while, “he plans to make it bigger? I think it’s a ridiculous notion myself, but one must not argue with their master… Ah, here we are.” He pushed open another door, and gestured for John to put the tray down on a little side table.

The room was huge, and in and of itself a sort of maze, with bookshelves stretching all the way to the ceiling. They were only half full though; it appeared that Mr Norrell intended to add many more volumes to his collection. John peered round a column and saw, looking very small against the grandeur around him, Norrell himself, standing over a silver dish.

Suddenly, he felt a terrible closeness all around him. Once, when he had been at sea, he had fallen over the side of the boat and almost drowned. This was much like that, the unbearable pressure on his eardrums, the inability to breath, black spots covering his vision, and suddenly…

Darkness.

 

When he came to he was back in the kitchen, and Sumner was standing over him, anxiously. He sat up, and winced. He had a headache like an awful hangover.

“I’ve never seen Mr Norrell’s magic take anyone like that before,” said Sumner, helping John to his feet, “one of the maids complained that it made her feel queasy, but no one has ever fainted!” He looked suddenly dejected, and continued: “I suppose you will want to leave now?”

“No, sir,” said John, slowly, “I intend to stay.” He staggered over to the sink and looked into the water; his reflection was pale, and he had dark rings under his eyes. He shook his head and cupped his hand into the water. His reflection was distorted as ripples ran across the surface, and he splashed his face with the blessed coolness.

Oh God, he intended to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always very much appreciated!


End file.
